


Old Acquaintance

by BrosleCub12



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, New Year's Eve, Post Episode: Zurich, Switzerland, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: ‘I honestly thought this was going to be rather awkward.’





	Old Acquaintance

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of...rediscovered Cabin Pressure this month, in the way we all tend to 'rediscover' an old favourite every now and then. I'm really grateful to this fandom for all it's done for me over the past six years during my stumblings into adulthood and despite the many changes in my life during that time, some more difficult than others. Feedback would be marvellous. Please be aware that there are spoilers for 'Zurich' - which aired FOUR YEARS AGO, CRIKEY - and obviously, I don't own _Cabin Pressure._
> 
> This is dedicated to the memory of my Mum, who shared my love for this wonderful, comforting, life-affirming radio show. Happy New Year, all.

* * *

‘I honestly thought this was going to be rather awkward.’

Martin says the words, makes the confession, over the takeaway tea he purchased from the drink stalls when the clock struck midnight and the new year was heralded in among cheers and screams and the whizz of fireworks around the Lake Zurich basin. Next to him, Douglas, relaxed on the bench, one leg over the other sipping coffee, glances his way, a little surprised at the honesty.

‘Did you,’ he pushes lightly, with a slight, raised eyebrow; not offended, no, but interested. What a strange thing to say.

Martin – for all his newfound erudition, his confidence, his ability to look things in the eye and not run away – blushes, just a little, the sight clashing as ever with that fiercely red hair. ‘Y-yes. A little.’

‘I see.’ Douglas uncrosses his legs and glances over to where Arthur is running around the middle of the street, taking photographs. They’re in a quiet little square, having moved away from the crowds surrounding the basin, neither of them ever having accustomed to crowds despite spending years in airports and definitely not enjoying the prospect of Arthur wandering off and getting lost in the happy heave of people.

Now they’re sharing a mercifully dry bench, sipping their drinks, huddling against the night’s chill in their coats and gloves, the sounds of celebration all over the city piercing their shared, relative quiet.

‘Of course, I’m really happy to see you,’ Martin adds earnestly and Douglas nods, taking pity.

‘Both mine and Arthur’s fragile egos remain intact. It’s good to see you too, Martin,’ he adds, more warmly and Martin’s eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased. They both take a square of the chocolate-bar generously purchased for them at one of the stalls by Arthur (‘Oh, wow, brilliant, genuine Swiss chocolate!’) and munch quietly (Martin can’t deny that he used to spend a stupidly long time staring at Toblerones in shops with a lump in his throat).

Four years after he left Fitton, here they all are again; Theresa’s been roped into some royal event this New Year’s Eve (which is basically shorthand for babysitting Maxie so he doesn’t spill soup all over the poor Belgian Prime Minister again – although he did do it to the President of the United States earlier in the year and that definitely _wasn’t_ an accident) and with _MJN – OJS,_ he still has to catch himself – being on a timely excursion to Zurich for New Year’s, it had been an excellent time to meet up.

It’s also been a long time, though, since he, Arthur and Douglas were in each other’s company (Herc and Carolyn being back at the hotel making the most of the facilities) let alone outside an aeroplane where the three of them relied on each other’s companionship, on the sound of each other’s voices, to keep the inevitable boredom that came with flying a plane at bay. Arthur, of course, had immediately run to Martin and squeezed the life out of him, but still.

Martin isn’t the skipper anymore – Douglas is. Martin doesn’t play word games anymore – Douglas and Herc do. Martin doesn’t play games with Captain Lutre; appreciates her professionalism, her easy manner, is ever-grateful towards her for the way she put him at ease in the cockpit in the early days – but no, they don’t do anything like that.

Arthur then helpfully drags Martin out of his musings by nearly slipping over in the square – Martin jumps, spills lukewarm tea over his thigh as he reacts, holds out a hand towards him.

‘Arthur! Careful!’

‘Sorry!’

‘Thirty-three and nothing’s changed,’ Douglas mutters and Martin chuckles a bit, as Arthur ambles his way back to the bench. He’s a little larger in height and width; his fringe has grown out a bit, but he still has the same friendly countenance of a labrador puppy, the same kind eyes, a reassuring sight in an ever-changing world.

‘How are you finding being sixty?’ he asks Douglas, with a shy sip of his tea; it’s a strange thing to contemplate and he wonders if its rude to ask, but he can’t quite believe it himself, his former colleague hitting the big _6-0._ Douglas, for his part, scoffs.

‘Oh, you know. Still thrice-divorced and my daughter is starting to discover _Twilight_ and the irresistible magnetic charm of that chap who once died in a maze in _Harry Potter,_ or something.’

‘I think we actually flew him, once,’ Martin offers with a cryptic little grin. ‘Some…filming thing they were doing out here in Zurich. He was nice, really.’

‘Hi chaps.’ Arthur sits down between them with a heavy, contented huff. ‘Wow, Skipper! I love this city. It’s brilliant!’

‘Thankyou, Arthur,’ Martin offers, at the same moment that Douglas says, ‘Good to know, Arthur.’

Then they both stop, eye each other; Martin sees a rare uncertainty cross Douglas’ face and Arthur looks caught, guilty.

‘Sorry, Skip – Martin,’ he corrects himself. ‘Old habits. Sorry, Douglas.’

‘Not at all.’ Douglas – of course, _Captain Richardson_ these days – waves it off, not looking particularly offended; knowing, even. Martin clears his throat, feeling torn between moved at Douglas’s discretion and even a little bit nostalgic, rubbing the back of his neck.

Funny, really, how seeing Douglas and Arthur again in a social capacity can reawaken those old feelings of slight awkwardness; not to do with _them,_ necessarily, but all the other stuff their lives together seemed to represent: being poor, being barely able to live adequately, being hungry, being _different._ Being with them, being on _GERTI,_ the only truly decent part of that life – and to his amazement, becoming something that he was actually rather loathe to leave. Had to, in the end, of course, but – still.

They fall into silence for a moment as fresh fireworks break the sky above, popping noises of light, heralding in a fresh new year. Martin glances sideways at Arthur’s face, rapt and then at Douglas, watching them studiously with the face of the man who’s seen fireworks over many different cities and feels a little embarrassed by his own lack of foresight.

‘I’m sorry if – if this is a little boring for you,’ he offers up finally, flushing a little. ‘I know we probably should have gone and had dinner somewhere, but I didn’t really plan anything –’

‘That’s quite alright,’ Douglas dismisses, while Arthur shakes his head, puts a hand to his shoulder, making sounds of protest. ‘It’s wonderful to have the opportunity to explore Zurich’s absolute best selection of benches, Martin and you, of course, have chosen terribly well. I think this bench will most definitely be going on My Top Five Most Recommended To Rest Your Rump Upon.’

It’s said with that usual Richardson mixture of irony and genuine reassurance, that ability of making the best out of any situation and Martin sighs, considers his options and then decided to just come straight out with it.

‘I just…I really like this city,’ he shrugs at the sentiment, at the unexpectedness of finding his home here, far away from everything he knew.

‘Well, yes,’ Douglas offers. ‘Heaven forfend you live somewhere you didn’t like.’

Martin chuckles a little at that; rubs the back of his neck.

‘I suppose I just enjoy _being_ in it,’ he explains sheepishly; feels like he ought to, somehow. Arthur and Douglas both nod, making twin noises of either trying to understand, or understanding far too well, two sets of eyes – one pair warm and brown, the other gently-grey and _knowing_ – upon him, listening.

Martin shrugs, warming to his theme.

‘I used to walk around a lot and I would see things I liked, but I kept,’ he sighs, feeling stupid at the admission, ‘I kept forgetting I had money to start with and it took a bit of reminding from Theresa that I could actually just… buy things for myself, that I could afford to. That I was allowed.’

He clears his throat, recalls those first days, feeling like a small, ginger fish in a second-hand hoodie in the middle of a huge, Swiss pond, staring open-mouthed at the world he’d stepped into. And yet he’s managed to find his space in it all the same, a space he’d only ever found once before: flying a small, second-hand plane that was seemingly crawling along airspace on her last set of wings, or so everyone thought.   

‘I just like _being_ here, I suppose,’ he concludes, rather lamely; his mouth twitches in a smile. ‘That was just – nice, in itself. Funny, really, what years of poverty can do to you.’

He stares reflectively at his knees, aware of how pathetic that sounds, still embarrassed by the reminder of the life he used to live for such a long time, with _GERTI_ as his only escape; his personal TARDIS in her own weird, wonderful way. How he had grown so accustomed, for such a long time, to simply _looking,_ and not having.

Immediately, Arthur puts an arm around his shoulders.

‘So now you’re sharing it with us,’ he declares with a big smile, like it’s something special, while Martin fumbles not to spill his tea. ‘You’re sharing where you live with me and Douglas. That’s _really_ brilliant, Skip – Martin. You wouldn’t do that with just _anyone,_ would you? Apart from Theresa, obviously, and your Mum and your family.’

Well. No, actually. Martin shakes his head in agreement, mulling that over, conceding that Arthur’s got a point. Not that he has a lot of people from his old life to share this wonderful sight with – but _still._

‘You’re definitely a rich man now, Martin,’ Douglas agrees, his tone completely devoid of teasing as he indicates the space around them. ‘And for what it’s worth, I like it too.’ There’s something gentle in his gaze as he looks at the two of them. ‘But here’s a thought, Arthur – why don’t you just call Martin the “Skip” and me the “Skipper.” Then you won’t get yourself even more confused than usual.’

‘Oh.’ Arthur mulls that over. ‘Hm. Let me just try that out. Hello, Skip,’ he says to Martin, still under his arm.

‘Hello, Arthur.’

Arthur turns to Douglas. ‘Hello, Skip _per,’_ he adds a jauntiness to the extra syllable, experimental.

‘Good evening, Arthur.’ Douglas drains his coffee. ‘Better?’

‘Yeah, it is, actually!’ Arthur beams and puts an arm around him too, drawing him into the hug. ‘Skip, Arthur and Skipper! Brilliant!’

‘Well, I’m exceedingly glad the exercise hasn’t proved mentally straining for you,’ Douglas offers dryly, slightly muffled, even with his cheek pressed against Arthur’s shoulder. Martin smiles; has to quickly and surreptitiously rub at his eyes as he and Douglas are held close for a long moment. He’s met a lot of stewardesses and stewards, but none like Arthur, or indeed like _Carolyn,_ perish the thought.

Probably a good thing, he considers, thinking of Arthur’s optimism, of Carolyn’s well-concealed but ever-present protectiveness, just because you can value it more when you see it.

He pats at Arthur’s arm, seeing Douglas doing the same thing, neither of them actually attempting to pull away. He just soaks in the feeling of Arthur with another burst of remembrance – of tea and lemons and flying into sunsets, years past – and holds onto it, hopes to keep it long after Arthur and Douglas have gone.

‘Well,’ Douglas remarks finally, as Arthur finally releases them both and they straighten up on the bench, rubbing their collars. ‘Stewards hanging around benches and giving full-bodily hugs to grown men sipping hot drinks in the middle of the night on New Year’s Eve. The people of Zurich had better watch their backs.’

Martin can’t help but chuckle as Arthur gets up to take some more photographs. ‘I know! We’re such youths.’

‘All we need now is some Tesco doughnuts,’ Douglas agrees and they both laugh, hearty and full, the sound of the other man’s laugh reminding Martin, as ever, of a rich, generous stew.

He’s missed thinking that, really. Missed _them,_ despite it all.

‘You know – I do actually have a favourite restaurant,’ he ventures, once the laughter’s faded away, clearing his throat, ‘and they’re usually open until two on New Year’s. Shall we – do you want to go and have a look? I can always take you back to my place for a bite to eat otherwise, I do have some… snacks and whatnot. Cola, too,’ he adds with a glance at Douglas.

‘I think toasting to the new year while inspecting your favourite _chez_ away from _chez_ would be very agreeable – providing we don’t all get food poisoning,’ Douglas teases, with a twinkle in his eye; Martin shoves at him as they stand.

‘It’s a four-star restaurant, Douglas and I’m not _that_ stupid. Or that unlucky, actually, believe it or not,’ he adds with a cheeky grin.

‘Well, I absolutely promise not to do anything to change your luck, such as embarrass you in front of the staff, or get you barred from the place under any circumstances,’ Douglas spreads his arms wide, perfectly faux-innocent and Martin gives him a look; some things never change.

‘Yeah,’ Arthur pipes up distractedly, currently trying to take a photo of the square. ‘Nor me, Skip.’

For a moment, Martin and Douglas exchange a slightly worried glance, saying nothing. When they talk, it’s in perfect unison.

‘Arthur, your camera is upside-down.’

‘Is it? Oh yeah,’ Arthur notes as he checks. ‘Thanks, chaps! Skip and Skipper!’ he beams, gives them a huge thumbs-up; Martin bites his lip, bites back a half-grimace, glances Douglas’ way again.

‘Shall we order food to go, perhaps?’ Douglas asks calmly, and Martin breathes out; thinks of everything, as ever. ‘Then maybe you can show us your flat, Martin and Arthur can wreck merry havoc on _that_ instead, as an extremely generous souvenir for you to remember us by. I take it there are no students wandering around half-naked while panicking over their essays in this particular living-abode?’

Martin sighs, shakes his head, beckons them both to follow. ‘You _know_ there aren’t and anyway, Douglas, you turned up to collect me in the middle of reading week…’

‘Oh, First Officer Crieff, you _hound…’_

‘Douglas, not in front of Arthur!’

‘Oh, it’s fine!’ Arthur falls into step beside them. ‘Herc wanders around half-naked at our place all the time! Then again, he is married to Mum, so I suppose it’s allowed.’

Martin cringes into his hand; Douglas shuts his eyes, pained.

‘Thankyou, Arthur. I’ll bear that wonderful mental image in mind when we’re flying a thirteen-hour trip to Singapore on the fifth. Right, gentlemen, because I require some sort of bleach for my brain after that – let us play a hearty round of Songs That Sound More Like National Anthems and no, Arthur, ‘Remember You’re a Womble’ does _not_ count.’

They play the game and talk and bicker all the way down the street. All the while, Zurich twinkles all around them, welcoming in the first day of the year ahead, the smoky remnants of the final few fireworks that colour the stars blazing down and fading, like the last trails of an aeroplane in the night sky.

*


End file.
